


Lost in the Warm

by toomuchplor



Series: Unkissed [11]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan) RPF, Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunions, Romance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Joe hasn’t decided yet, if it’s the sort of thing that he should maybe be worried about, how they don’t leave Joe’s house, how they go all reclusive and intense and just — go fucking nuts for each other.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: that time Joe accidentally has sort of emotional sex with Tom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in the Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings in the end notes, but generally speaking it's filthy sex and then angst/comfort. This is a story I told myself on a day when I was feeling anti-social but was surrounded by people anyway. Unkissed!Verse has about zero continuity at this point, so let's say this takes place in some magical October 2012 when Tom is in L.A. and not Edinburgh or wherever he's hiding these days.

“A’right?” Tom asks, his own voice gone more than a little raspy. It’s not that he’s particularly noisy, Tom — it’s more how goddamn incredibly hard he’s working back there, fucking Joe hard and steady and perfect and slick.

Joe drops his forehead to the pillow for a moment, feels the cotton pulling away the sweat that’s beaded up there the last little while. Gathers his brain cells together and scrapes out a few words: “Yeah, m’good. Fuck. Oh.”

“You need a break?” Tom asks, and one of his hands leaves Joe’s hips and comes up his back, cups soft and tender around the nape of Joe’s neck. Joe can feel the curl of Tom’s stubbornly bent pinky finger, the smoothness of its close-clipped nail just above the topmost bump of Joe’s spine.

It’s true that they’ve been going at it for — Joe lifts his head up and looks at the bedside clock, has to squint to bring it into focus because he hasn’t got his contacts in — god, it’s been a long while, a long damn while. Joe’s throat is parched and his hands have gone a little numb and he’s not really sure he’s ever felt this way sober, before: like his brain is muffled, like it’s a true effort to catch the thread of a thought and chase it down towards an idea, a plan of action. Joe pushes up on his palms clumsily until he’s on hands and knees, Tom’s grip shifting fluidly until his hand is just resting between Joe’s shoulder blades. Joe clenches around Tom’s cock just to feel how unrelentingly fucking hard Tom is, and when Tom makes a low gritty sound in answer, that’s Joe’s decision made, right there. “No,” he says, rolling his hips up encouragingly, “no, I’m — long as you want to do this, I’m — god, Tom.”

Maybe not Joe’s most eloquent utterance, but Tom takes him at his word anyway, mangled as it might be. He flashes Joe a lopsided grin when Joe glances back at him, and then he’s steadying Joe’s ass between his hands again and pumping his hips. Joe gets half a smile onto his face before his expression slides helplessly into something a lot less genteel.

So: they fuck a lot, when they get these rare days together, these yet-rarer afternoons with nothing booked. Joe hasn’t decided yet, if it’s the sort of thing that he should maybe be worried about, how they don’t leave Joe’s house, how they go all reclusive and intense and just — go fucking nuts for each other. They’re perpetually trapped somewhere between all the energy they were forced to stow away while they were apart and the inevitable drought that’s to come when Tom gets a plane back to London tomorrow or the day after. All Joe really knows is that it’s good, even if it leaves him feeling sore and hungover and uncharacteristically lethargic when it’s all over and Tom’s gone again.

Tom’s going, again.

“Harder,” Joe says, “come on, Tom, fuck — harder.”

Tom obliges without comment, going hard, harder, even though he must be tiring now, he must be — but harder, faster, and Joe throws himself back into it, drops to his elbows again and pushes his ass up and looks back to watch Tom going pink with effort, muscles popping and mouth red-open-wet and hair slick-dark at his temples. Joe shifts again, gets a hand under himself, jerks his cock with rough syncopated strokes. It’s messy and inelegant and a bit uncoordinated but it doesn’t goddamn matter, Joe’s on the dizzy brink. He comes almost too easy, too fast, still pulling on his cock stupidly even as his fingers get slicked over. He half-chokes, throat hurting. Joe’s just barely getting his breath back when Tom slaps his ass hard, two-three-four, pulls out, and comes in thick streaks over Joe’s pink-startled skin. Joe watches, almost too stunned to work through the overload of stimulation: the stinging from the flat of Tom’s hand, the vulgar glory of Tom coming hard and long, the abrupt hollow slickness of his ass. Joe’s ears are ringing faintly and his knees are going to give out in about three seconds, but first, but first —

Tom knows, Tom’s got him, forearm coming around Joe’s chest and holding him steady a moment longer for a bruising fond kiss. And then Joe’s crashing down face-first into the bed, dizzy, breathless, staggered. Tom lands beside him, reaching across to use a corner of the sheet to wipe down Joe’s ass with a careless sweep of his hand over tender skin.

“We mustn’t fall asleep,” Tom says, even as he nuzzles into a pillow and goes all droopy-eyed. “Joseph.”

Joe turns his head away from Tom’s and works at regulating his breath, in-out-in-out, but it won’t steady. It won’t. Every exhalation is coming out choppy and harsh, and every answering inhalation feels like a knife-edge in his windpipe. Joe can’t stop it, it seems; maybe he can at least keep it quiet until Tom drifts off, until Joe can get up and seek the privacy of the bathroom and splash some water on his face.

“Did we eat all that pizza from yesterday?” Tom asks, wonderfully perfectly oblivious, sweeping fingertips up Joe’s back like Joe is his dog Baxter. “I feel like there were a couple of slices left, weren’t there a couple of slices left?”

It comes up from somewhere around Joe’s belly, a wash of melancholy and brokenness so overpowering that he knows in an instant that there’s no getting around it. The wave crests over the lump in his throat and makes him shudder out a half-laugh, muffled too late. Tom’s leaving. Tom’s going.

But Tom doesn’t react, actually; his hand doesn’t so much as hesitate over the weird noise Joe just made, only continues to sweep up and down comfortingly. “Or we could get Mexican for dinner. I should have some proper salsa while I can.”

Joe turns his face back towards Tom, because there’s no way Tom could have missed it. He feels his cheeks wet, tastes salt, blinks at Tom in silent apology and wishes for the strength to gather himself up, to get off the bed and get his shit together in dignified privacy.

“Anything but curry,” says Tom, matter-of-fact, and then pulls his hand off Joe’s back and sweeps his thumb over Joe’s cheekbone in a soft tender motion that makes Joe almost sick with sadness. “Hmm?”

“It’s October,” says Joe. “You’re leaving.”

“I know, it’s crap, it’s madness,” says Tom, and shifts onto his side, lifts up his arm in invitation. 

Joe doesn’t give himself time to feel stupid about it, just burrows into Tom and presses his hot embarrassed face into the safe place just under Tom’s jaw. 

“It’s rubbish timing,” Tom adds, kissing Joe’s hair absently.

Joe blinks against Tom’s ink-marked skin and lets himself come apart, a little, Tom’s fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and Tom’s scent everywhere and Tom’s broad solid compact body against his. Joe doesn’t do this; he keeps his fucking meltdowns to himself, thanks very much, and when he can’t do that he buries them in the middle of an epic night of drunkenness where no one will remember anything — least of all Joe. 

But suddenly it seems blazingly obvious that Tom is absolutely the best person in the universe to be broken with. Tom doesn’t have a judgemental bone in his whole fucking body, and he’s never made a fuss over the ugly necessity of feelings, of irredeemable mistakes and indelible scars.

So Joe pulls back after a while, and lays his head on Tom’s biceps, and lets himself be a big fucking train-wreck while Tom strokes his hair and his ears and says soft comforting things. Someday, maybe, Joe can say some words back, let Tom in on some of the mess that Joe pretends isn’t inside his own head and heart, tangled up in the month of October and snagged sloppily, too, by the idea of Tom’s imminent departure. But for now it’s enough to let Tom see Joe like this: a little disassembled, ragged, messy.

“What’s funny?” says Tom, after some minutes have passed and Joe catches himself laughing, quietly if haltingly.

“Just,” says Joe, “I never thought I would get all fucked up and emotional over doggy-style sex that ended with you spanking my ass and,” and he laughs out the rest of the idea while Tom pulls a confused face. 

But Tom’s playing now, because even he knows it’s not exactly cookie-cutter romantic, their sex life, their mutual version of soft-focus missionary-style Hollywood bullshit lovemaking. They’re not precious like that, they’re not sweet and wide-eyed and gentle — except how, sometimes, they are.

Like right now, Tom gathering Joe in for a sloppy hard embrace, a kiss dropped squarely to the middle of Joe’s forehead. “What about Moroccan?” he says.

“Yeah,” says Joe, and grins at Tom, ruffles his hair just for the pleasure of seeing it askew, wild and sweaty. “Yeah, okay. Moroccan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some very, very oblique references to the anniversary of JGL's brother's death. (If you read this and missed it, that's okay; like I said, very oblique.)


End file.
